


Okay and Other Variations of the Word

by MaK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaK/pseuds/MaK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Really. Just, really? Wow. Fuck you. I want pizza."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Okay and Other Variations of the Word

**Author's Note:**

> once again written on an iPod, so, excuse any small mistakes.

He remains silent, grunting as quietly as possibly as he yanks at his member. You probably shouldn't be watching, you certainly shouldn't, but you are, and you're almost desperate to do the same. He's still convinced he's soiling his perfect, achieved son; although you've told him a thousand times, "Dad, it's okay! Really. I love you, and you love me. It's okay!"

The phrase - it's okay - would be repeated a million times, you know. Your Dad is getting eager now, in the way you can tell he's close, dragging trimmed fingernails over your navel and lower chest. If you shift your hips a little, your boner will probably nudge his dick, but then he'd plausibly get all flustered and quit. Which is a thing you do not want to happen.

Tonight, you plan to kiss him. You'd like to think it'd ease his nerves, showing you want this and are comfortable with it, but you'd also just like to fucking touch him. He allows your hand to travel and palm at your boner, but he never goes lower than the belt himself. You are not allowed to touch his chest, his thighs, his neck, or his anything. None of it! And it's so unfair.

"John." He mumbles, grunts, and breathes.

"Dad..." you say back, and mentally bonk yourself for being so hesitant. He cringes internally, you see it, but when the name passes your lips he leans down, groaning quietly and hiding his face from you, and comes on your crotch and navel. You moan, "Hahaaa, Daaad," and ruin your boxers with further a do.

Maybe when he's not panting - so quietly - into the crook of your neck, he'll scold you for indulging him. "It's not right, John." He'll say, again and again and again. You'll say that, goddammit, you just don't give a shit.

You hug him, and he's slow to do the same.

"John." Dad warns.

"Shut up," you roll your eyes and kiss, lightly and like a feather, at his shoulder. He freezes - maybe because you disrespected him or your lips are making contact with his skin. Probably the latter. You do it again, several times. Tempted to do it hundreds.

His skin is bitter with sweat but smells somewhat like cake and shaving cream. You pull your Dad's hat off the sheets and put it happily atop your own head, and then continue kissing along his shoulder and neck. It's not sexy, or anything. If it has to be defined, you'd say it's cute. But you're not cute so you nip his neck.

"Fuck, John," your Dad shivers. You're pretty sure he's grinding at your pelvis.

"Shh!" you make an ill attempt to scold him. As if you really care.

Your nails skid lightly up his back, leaving faint, pink streaks. With the way your Dad is moving and sounding, he's getting really worked up over it; you can just barely feel him hardening on your thigh.

He lets out a gasp when one of your hands scale his collar bone, and it's making its way down and down and down until you reach his belly button, and then he abruptly stands up and moves away from you. Quickly fastening his pants and re-tightening his belt, your Dad makes awkward movements about the room while attempting not to stare at the mess he made on your stomach.

"Dad?" you ask, and honestly you're a little hurt. 

"John," he replies, and throws a towel onto your stomach. "Come on, clean up. You have homework, yes?" upon mention of your school life, he cringes again. "It's all going to hell, anyway," he mutters. Your Dad sits at the edge of the bed and sets his face in his hands. 

You move over to him and sit back on your haunches, unsure if the thing to do right now is hug him and repeat, "It's alright," or leave him be. And as much as you want to change out of your shorts (they're beginning to stick uncomfortably to your thighs), you lean up against your father's back and hug him.

"Dad, trust me, it's cool."

He sighs heavily and reaches for the tobacco pipe that's actually in the living room. Dad sighs again and responds, "John. I'm beginning to believe you have no idea just how not 'cool' any of this is."

"But, it is cool! I'm alright with this, I promise." And you do. Cross your heart and hope to die.

He takes his hat off your disastrous bundle of fur you call hair and slams it - as much as you can slam a hat - on his desk. "I am destroying my son."

You pout and squeeze him tighter. "Dad."

"There's no buts about it, John. I've completely ruined any future you may have had with my own hands." He looks down at them and you can practically taste how much he loathes himself at this moment.

When he opens his mouth again, your press your palm over his lips and say, "Dad, really, it's fine. It's not like... this is going to ruin my straight A's or break my braces. Or block any chance of me getting a scholarship. It's really, really okay!" on a second thought, you add, "And I'm okay with it."

You nuzzle into the groove between his shoulder blades and inform him, "So, seriously, chill the fuck out."

"John," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Do not ever use that kind of language in this house." He sighs. "Let's at least keep your mouth clean if you're so cool with me dirtying the rest of you."

"Are you shitting me," you respond, staring at his neck in a pout of disbelief.

"What did I just say?" Dad reminds you and when you peak over the line of his collar, you can just make out his smile. In an attempt to kiss his cheek, you end up kissing his jawline (you're just gonna go ahead and count that as your kiss; it seems to have thee affect you wanted anyway). You're pretty sure he doesn't mind.

"Oh my god," you mumble against his neck.

He stand and scoops you up and whispers into your ear softly. Perhaps you're expecting an I love you, John, or I am so proud of you, or something along those lines. Instead, you feel the small pricks of hair on his cheek touch yours and the small curve of his mouth that grazes your ear. "We're having cake to celebrate."

"Really. Just, really? Wow. Fuck you. I want pizza."

You end up eating a cake that's decorated like pepperoni pizza and taste vaguely of vanilla but more like lemon.


End file.
